


Stay.

by bluecarrot



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Hamburr, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither one of them ever learned to speak clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay.

**Author's Note:**

> i take some historical liberties sometimes.

"Stay. Just stay here."

He's speaking to the plain board in front of him, deep into his third beer, all of them drank too fast. His head is still spinning. What happened? What was that? He didn't intend -- he didn't mean it -- this was all stupid, their entire relationship has always been a mess but this is the worst part, the stupidest part, he's never been so petty as he was this morning.

 

Ten paces. Take aim. Raise your arm.

He turns first, stepping off the distance quickly, and watches Alexander walk it slow; the sun is up and shrouded in mist off the water. Alex seems very distant -- he has been distant, for years, ever since Philip died, and that affair with the Reynolds woman going public, and now those last few letters -- _(I just wanted an apology why don't you ever admit you are wrong is it pride or stubbornness or are you really that egotistical)_ \-- the clouds of words Hamilton writes, the mist in his eyes now as he sees

Alex turn and raise his head and raise his arm and --

And he thinks of all those words, how Hamilton is always trying to find a way to apologize and simultaneously insist he isn't wrong, couldn't _possibly_ be wrong, has never said or done anything wrong in his life --

Burr's finger is already on the trigger but he can wait for this. His arm is starting to shake from the strain. It's not easy, waiting.

Hamilton's arm goes up and Burr's finger twitches down before he realizes Alex was aiming up further, he was reaching towards the sky just like he'd told Philip to do, just like he'd insisted he would do in that foolish duel with Monroe all those years ago when Burr talked them both down, when he told Alexander to just stay, stay, Alex, for the love of god just stay here and keep still and

keep your mouth shut, it's not worth dying or killing over --

"I must speak with him," he says, moving forward.And Van Ness says "No. Aaron, you must run."

 

The barkeep isn't suspicious, not yet. He probably hasn't heard the news.

Yet.  
Burr takes another round and another and staggers upstairs, unpleasantly stupid where he wanted to fade into haze, into dissipation. Dissipating clouds, he thinks. Mist.

Dissolved. Absolved, he thinks, and falls unto the floor.

 

"Stay," Burr says to the horse beneath him. "Steady." God, it's hot. The horse shifts, nervous from the noise, the men's screams, the beating bleeding heart of war all around them. The animal's coat is damp with sweat, his eyes are flicking back to Burr and outward again.

Burr looks outward; he shields his eyes from the sun, midday now, high enough to cut through the clouds of smoke rising from a thousand muskets.

Where is the General? What should he do?

But it's hard to think. The air is sticky with gunpowder and he is sick with sweat and tension and grief. Last night he held a man's head in his lap and tried to soothe him, speaking quietly about nothing, the good home things of warm bread and soft baths and a woman's touch and peace and quiet and starlight. The man was moaning, eyes rolling in his head, insensible. Maybe Burr was talking to himself after all. He pushed back the man's hair but could not stop his hands from shaking; he could not stop himself from wishing the man was already dead.

And then he died -- like that -- spittle and worse coming out his mouth, thrashing one final time, going rigid and then going limp.

And Burr started to shake all over. He didn't even know this man's name and he certainly wasn't the one who shot him in the side but it seemed like he was responsible, like his hidden impatience forced the blood out faster or pushed the bullet in deeper, like if he'd only waited -- if he'd only said the right words, or the right tone --

He jumped up and ran to find someone.

The horse between his legs gives a horrible scream and collapses, falling to its side; Burr barely frees his legs and jumps back before the animal rolls over, still screaming, in agonizing pain.

Burr's bayonet was broken ages ago and never fit correctly and he hated it anyway and now it's fallen off and lost somewhere; he takes his musket and aims carefully and squeezes the trigger down and squeezes his eyes shut at the exact right moment.

It's a waste of gunpowder and shot, he could be court-martialed for it, but it is the only thing he can do anymore, the only thing he has control over, the one common denominator in all of their lives.

He thinks this as the horse dies.

He thinks: I am so warm.

And then he vomits, over and over, until his stomach is empty and his eyes are full again, reaching out to the ground as if there is someone lying there, thinking _I am so sorry, I am so sorry, I didn't know what else to do_ \--

 

"Hamilton, it's fine. Stop worrying. You can stay." But the other man is stuffing papers into a leather envelope, embarrassed and angry. Burr stifles a laugh, it's so typical.

"Will you please sit back down?"

"I can't ever speak with you again," says Alexander, and Burr isn't sure if he is serious or joking.

"It's fine. Really. We're all men -- and we've all been out here for months. Away from women. It's fine." Burr feels a little warm, talking about this, but he has to take it lightly -- what other option is there?

Alexander sinks into a camp chair. "Humiliation beyond bearing," he mutters, but this time Burr is sure there's a smile under the words, and then Hamilton's eyes close and he's smiling openly now: "Of course it had to happen in front of you. The perfect genius. Our littlest soldier. Steadfast Aaron Burr."

"Oh, shut up. You're the one Washington ..." But Burr lets the argument die. He doesn't want to talk about the General's marked preference for Hamilton. He'd rather talk about -- well, the other option isn't a safe topic either.

He glances at the other option.

It is still remarkably present.

He clears his throat. "Have you gotten any letters from home lately?" And at once he could bite out his tongue -- Hamilton is from the Carribbean, he's an orphan, he doesn't have a home or people to write -- but Alexander only shrugs.

"Not so very. John Laurens wrote me, I received it only last week. That's it."

Laurens.

Burr chooses his words carefully. "I heard he married some time ago."

"That's right." Alexander is examining the heel of one boot. Unlike Burr -- and almost everyone else -- Hamilton wears boots that don't need attention; they are reasonably new, reasonably well-fitting, and haven't been cut up to add flavor to a stew. Another perk of being friends with the General.

"I wish them well," says Burr.

"As do I."

Fascinating, this lack of conversation from a man who isn't exactly known for his reserve.

Burr starts to speak, stops, considers.

He knew the rumours but wasn't particularly curious until -- well, until five minutes ago, when Alexander stopped in the middle of a sentence to fix Burr's collar and turned red and turned away and did not quite move fast enough to hide the rising bulge in his breeches --

Burr is not against needling Hamilton (how often has Hamilton jibed him on his stature, his pointed lack of attention from Washington?) -- but he wants to place the knife carefully.

So he says "It's none of my business, of course, it's not my affair -- but -- "

"You're right; it isn't your business." Hamilton doesn't look up. He's got his eyes shut again and his face is tired.

He knows exactly what Burr is asking and he doesn't give a shit about the implication. He's not embarrassed, he's hurting.

The knife went too deep after all.

"I'm very happy for him," says Hamilton. "If you'll excuse me --"

That's the last they talk about it.

 

"Stay, will you?"

Burr shakes his head.

The party is loud and it's been going on all night. He has other things to do. He doesn't need any of this -- he doesn't want any of this, these people aren't his friends, not really, they're Hamilton's friends. They're nice enough to Burr but he always feels a distance in their smiles.

Maybe it's his own imagination. Maybe it's too many years of laughter hidden behind words, too many times being called "Little Burr" (as if he can help being small; as if he ought to be blamed), too many careful sentences of his own going flat while others talk easily and get twice as far.

Too much Hamilton, in general.

"I have things to do. I have -- there's someone waiting for me."

Just thinking of Theodosia makes his chest ache. She is waiting for him, she said; please god let it be true.

"Yes, I heard that." Hamilton shifts back, lets go of his arm. The smile drops away from his face. (What had he heard? From whom?) "You should bring her with you. Next time."

"You're very kind, but --"

"Alex," someone calls.

And Hamilton turns away.

 _Stay,_ he'd said.

Well.

Burr takes his satchel and goes.

 

"Jesus, Burr, will you just -- hold still -- where I put you? Please? For once?"

Burr is hallucinating. Got to be. He's seeing Alexander Hamilton and the white walls of a medical tent and god it is hot, it is so hot, inescapable, it makes him sick to his stomach and if he had eaten in the last few days he would be passing all that back out, one way or another, but instead his gut just clenches and releases and nothing comes. Thank god.

Hamilton looks -- tired. Worn out. There's old blood on his shirt and his hair is tied back and greasy with sweat, and the inkstains on his fingers are just as present as ever, and just now he presses Burr back down with a hand on his chest and a threat in his ear -- Burr would never have thought to hallucinate _that_ , so he thinks this must be real.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says.

"Where am I supposed to be?"

"Staying with Washington. In Yorktown. Last I heard."

Hamilton pauses. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"No, I just heard --"

But Hamilton laughs aloud. "Liar."

He brushes back the hair off Burr's forehead and leans close down over him and touches his face, his mouth.

For a second, Burr thinks -- he thinks --

And he _wants it,_ oh god he wants it so badly --

And then he wakes in his own bed, sweating with the memory of heat, the memory of desire.

The war is over -- still. Thank god, the war is still over.

Theodosia is next to him, curled up on her side, asleep, and the war is still over.

Burr buries his face in her hair.

 

"Stay a while longer, will you?" Hamilton is leaning over the table that serves them as a desk; he doesn't bother to stop writing.

Burr hesitates. "I need to get home."

"What is eating you lately?"

He doesn't want to talk about this. But Hamilton actually put down the pen, he's rubbing his cramped fingers and looking up at Burr like he wants to know -- like hecares. There aren't many people who care.

Burr hesitates again.

Hamilton tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear, still waiting for Burr to make up his mind, sit down, talk. He hasn't even glanced down at the papers, though he must be desperate to get back to writing -- he's always desperate to get back to writing.

Burr sits. "Theo's sick."

"Your daughter?"

"My wife."

Hamilton shakes his head, disbelieving, denying. "I just saw her -- what, two weeks ago, at that dinner party -- did it set on that quickly --"

"It's gone on for years, Hamilton. Before I met her. It's getting worse."

"The doctors --"

"They can't do anything." He stops talking before he is forced to stop from the grief that's risen up in his throat.

"But --"

Burr shakes his head, swallowing hard. He waits a moment. Speaks. "It's only a matter of time, now."

There are a million things for Hamilton to say to this. Arguments, mostly. No one can argue like Hamilton. But he only stands up and walks to where Burr is seated and slowly, carefully, draws the other man into his arms.

 

They do not talk about this.

It joins the other things they don't talk about, a swelling tide of silence between them: they ignore everything about John Laurens, they ignore that afternoon at camp, any mention of Theodosia, of illness, of waiting. Instead they talk around it. Politics, dinner parties, the war stories they've all seemed to collect, men and women alike.

Hamilton is married.

They don't talk about that either.

And one night they've both worked too late, trying to collaborate on opening arguments, trying to merge Burr's careful, close perfection with Hamilton's wilderness of explanation.

Burr is ready to go. Beyond ready. It's past two in the morning. They need to be in court at eight. He stands up --

"Don't go," says Hamilton. He rubs a hand across his eyes.

"I need to sleep. You need to sleep. You need to go home, Hamilton."

Alexander doesn't look up. He doesn't answer.

Burr puts a hand to his forehead. "You're warm. When was the last time you slept?"

"I'll sleep. Just stay here. Stay with me. Please." And Hamilton shuts his eyes; he pulls Burr's hand down to his mouth as if they've done this a hundred times, and Burr flinches back but Hamilton is pulling him in closer and it doesn't matter what Burr wants or doesn't want because Hamilton is convincing him about this as effortlessly as he does everything, and Burr lets it happen, lets himself be drawn along, lets his own frustration and grief and loss dissolve against Hamilton's body.

When Hamilton groans aloud and calls him "Laurens," Burr does not correct him.

 

Theodosia is buried in the churchyard in late spring. All that Burr can think of to say to her afterwards is _please just stay_.

 

They stop speaking.

It happens slowly.

Hamilton is busy and Burr is busy and eventually it's the newspapers that announce the death of Hamilton's son in a duel, and then Burr is walking down the street when he sees a familiar name waved about. He buys the Reynolds pamphlet with some pocket change and sits down on a park bench to read it right there, laughing aloud, it's completely inappropriate response but he can't help it. Only Hamilton would think that publishing the details of a long-term affair would clear his reputation; only Hamilton would be so sordid and, yeah, stupid.

Afterwards he thinks to visit the household but what would be the point.

Afterwards he talks to a friend who talked to a friend who spoke to Hamilton years ago; the friend remembers something Hamilton said. Angry and tired, Burr requests an apology.

Hamilton responds with five pages of disavowal and convoluted argument.

Burr replies that Hamilton always was a terrible lawyer.

Hamilton says Burr never made sense, not even once in his life.

Burr makes Van Ness stay by the table and wait while he drafts a response and then another response; at last he tears them both up and just tells Van Ness what to say.

 

 _Weehawken._  
_Dawn._

 

"Stay your hand," says Van Ness, speaking in an undertone to Burr as they row. "You do not need to do this."

But Burr is gripping the side of the boat, looking out over the water that looks like oil as it falls away from their oars. He doesn't answer. He has said everything already.

 

In dreams he goes to the hill again and again; sometimes Burr drops his pistol to the ground and only watches Hamilton shoot and sometimes he is hit by the bullet instead and sometimes Hamilton falls without any shot ringing out, clutching a hand to his side ( _"I must speak to him,"_ Burr says again and again; he pulls away from the firm grip of Van Ness, he must reach Alexander, he must tell him -- What? What can he say that could make this right, here at the end?)

In his dreams Burr doesn't say anything at all -- he doesn't need to speak -- and still Hamilton understands, he obeys, he stays and stays.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at tumblr - [littledeconstruction](http://littledeconstruction.tumblr.com/)


End file.
